


Carajillo

by indiavolowetrust



Series: Carajillo [1]
Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Anal, Anal Play, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, I have tagged everything that I thought was applicable, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Oral Sex, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Vaginal, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, please read these tags before reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:34:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24503200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiavolowetrust/pseuds/indiavolowetrust
Summary: Some things are truly set in stone. After tension arises between the Devildom and Celestial Realm, the human is called back to attend a summit.
Relationships: Barbatos (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!) & Reader, Barbatos (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Original Character(s), Barbatos (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Original Female Character(s), Barbatos/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), barbatos - Relationship
Series: Carajillo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1817053
Comments: 23
Kudos: 99





	1. january 14th, 12:04 p.m.

**Author's Note:**

> This main character is female, Spanish, and based on various female saints. Barbatos is given little characterization in canon, so I took the liberty to make him more of a sardonic demon.

It is said that the taste of _carajillo_ is unforgettable. Deeper than the blackest night, warmer than a summer’s day, and sweeter than the parting kiss of a lover. It is a flavor that bears the complexity and care of its roasting methods, one that carries the true spirit of its creators. It is a drink that eases the stomach, expresses the graciousness of the host, and kisses the lips of its bearer with a gentle, budding warmth, much as one would expect from an old lover. To take the first sip of _carajillo_ is to begin a love affair, it is said. To subject oneself to a lifetime of yearning for its taste.

Not that I would know. I can’t recall ever having tasted the drink, much less the last time I’ve craved coffee. While there is the appeal of liqueur or whiskey in the drink, the thought of wasting perfectly good liquor is discouraging.

The carriage jostles slightly as it passes over a hole in the road, forcing me out of my thoughts, and my hands move quickly to prevent my bag from dropping to the floor. Thankfully, the demonic coachman manages to right the path of the carriage before it can topple over, navigating it around what must be more rugged areas of the road, and it is only moments before the carriage moves smoothly once more. Still, with the windows of the carriage draped in dark, heavy curtains, it is impossible to tell the exact state of our position. I wait a minute or so before I finally release the bag from my grip, settling it back into its place on my lap.

I sigh. For all of Lord Diavolo’s eccentricities and efforts to connect to human culture and technology, it seems that some things about the Devildom are truly set in stone. Then again, I should expect nothing less from immortal beings. Lord Diavolo had already decreed that most, if not all, demons were to be educated regarding the finer details of the human world and the Celestial realm via mimicry of the human school system. An effort to encourage relations. He had already implemented the use of electricity into his cities and other modern comforts into his provinces, completely overriding the comfort of familiarity that most demons carried for the old ways. The nature of his lands had been transformed nearly overnight after he had been given the authority to act as the regent. It would only be natural for the demons to cling onto the vestiges of their former ways.

 _But it would be nice if they at least kept up with the roads,_ I think to myself, trying to ignore the constant sway of the carriage. My stomach lurches. _Good thing I forgot to eat this morning._

The carriage jolts again, stopping abruptly, and I only have a moment to protect my bag before I crash unceremoniously into the seat in front of me.

“We’re here, miss!” the coachman calls from outside of the carriage. The carriage creaks, and I feel the coachman jumping down from his position. “Would you like a hand with the rest of your bags?”

I shakily push myself away from the seat cushion. “No, I -- I think I’m alright,” I mumble, putting a hand to the side of my head. It throbs slightly from the impact. “There should be someone waiting for me. Is anyone out there yet?”

“None that I can see, miss,” says the coachman. The door swings open easily, revealing the winged figure of the coachman, and I do my best to look as if I hadn’t just crashed into the front seat of the carriage. He arches a brow. “I think it would be best if I helped. Wouldn’t be too gentleman-like if I left a little thing like you in the dust.”

I wave my hand in dismissal. “It’s fine, really. I’m not as weak as I look.”

“Is that so?”

In the end, it is the demonic coachman that carries most of my bags from the back of the carriage. I had grunted with effort after hauling one of the lighter suitcases onto the ground, my body nearly giving up under its weight, and the coachman had insisted on taking care of the rest. I had tried again, of course. My legs had trembled as the suitcase wobbled precariously in my arms, the strain of the work evident on my features -- and then the coachman had taken the bag from me, balancing it on his shoulder as if it weighed nothing.

That was the end of that.

“You got any business with the lord?” he asks, squinting at the dark, spiraling castle in front of us. Its sheer size seems to nearly devour the land before it. “His lordship gets his visitors here and there, but I didn’t think he’d ask for an audience with just one person. You must be an important little lady, huh?”

“You could say that,” I say, a sheepish look coming over my features. “I’m here for the summit.”

His eyes widen at that. “Oh! You must be that human, then.”

“That human?”

“The one everyone’s talking about,” he repeats, nodding. He scrutinizes me with interest, cocking his head slightly. “Didn’t think you’d be a kid, though.”

I feel an indignant heat rise to my cheeks, my mouth opening to speak, but the coachman merely cuts me off with a wave of his hand. A teasing grin spreads over his features as he takes all three of my bags over his shoulder, holding them in place with an inhuman strength. He juts a chin towards Lord Diavolo’s castle.

“Where are my manners?” he jests. “If you’ll carry that little bag of yours, I’ll take the rest of these up there for you. Free of charge, little lady.”

* * *

Lord Diavolo’s castle looms over me when I finally reach its doors, its spiraling towers disappearing into the expanse of the dark sky. The gates had opened before me as if they were a gaping maw, the courtyard nearly akin to the belly of a great beast -- and yet I feel nothing short of nostalgia. I can almost picture Beel wandering through the halls for a midnight snack, the gluttonous demon’s hand pressed over his stomach in an effort to quiet it. My eyes catch on one of the castle’s balconies, the small overhang jutting out over the surrounding forest, and I can imagine Lucifer throwing a fiery pillow just within the confines of the room. Each second of protecting Belphie and travelling into the past is burned into my memory. Back then, I never would have thought that I would become a true ambassador for the human world. Back when I was only an exchange student, a crucial experiment in Lord Diavolo’s efforts, I would have never expected to represent the human world alongside Solomon. 

But times have changed. Years have passed since Lord Diavolo’s aggressive policies, the unrest amongst the demons inevitable. The Celestial Realm, forever stagnant, had not reacted as well as Lord Diavolo had hoped. If such unease were allowed to build between both factions, it would be inevitable for the human world to be caught in the crossfire.

Hence Lord Diavolo had requested for a summit between all three realms.

My chest heaves with exertion by the time I reach the great doors of the castle, my body unused to the strain of the journeying so far and so quickly. The coachman acknowledges the guards at the door with a small nod, strolling in as if the castle were nothing more than a local pub, and I weakly trail behind. Then the bags are placed at my feet with a definite thump, the coachman dusting off his hands.

“You could’ve asked me to just carry you the whole way, little lady,” he says, taking in my restrained breathing and flushed face. “Would’ve been a lot easier on you.”

I shake my head, trying to wave off his concern. “Oh no, it’s just been a while since I -- since I’ve had to travel so far,” I stammer between gasping breaths. “But I appreciate it.”

The coachman raises a brow. “For a human, you’re kinda --”

“I believe Lord Diavolo’s orders were not to burden the guests.”

The coachman turns towards the voice, searching the massive entrance hall -- and then the coachman positions himself into a low bow, face nearly perpendicular to the floor. I place a hand on my chest, trying to catch my breathing. Then the sound of deliberate, tapping footsteps echoes throughout the entrance hall, demanding my attention, and I take a moment out of my physical suffering to regard the source of the noise.

“If I remember correctly,” Barbatos monotones, looking upon the coachman with disapproval, “I believe that our servants were to be notified should one of our guests arrive. You are free to correct me if I am wrong.”

The coachman deepens his bow. “My apologies, Barbatos. I only thought it would be best for me to personally escort her.”

It only takes a moment for the coachman to take his leave from the entrance hall, the massive doors closing shut behind him. My heart has finally begun to calm itself, the fatigue from the exertion lessening little by little, but labored breaths still rack through my body. I smile in spite of it -- or perhaps because of it, given my difficulty to speak at the moment -- and gesture awkwardly in an attempt to explain my current state.

Barbatos greets me with a bow. “My Lady.”

“Ah, there’s -- there’s no need to call me that,” I stammer, flustered by the unexpected formality. “Just because I’m the human world’s representative now doesn’t mean I’m a noble.”

“It is appropriate for your position,” he responds, standing back to full height. Barbatos bears that familiar impassive expression on his face, his gaze unwavering -- but there also exists a ghost of a smile over his mouth, the ends of it just barely quirking upwards. “But I suppose I am not well-versed in the classes of human society. Is there another name you would prefer to be addressed by?”

“My name.”

Barbatos nods. “Lady Maria, then.”

“Something a little less formal than that,” I assert, crossing my arms. “If Lord Diavolo is so adamant on having his guests addressed in such a manner, I’m sure --”

“You’re sure that he won’t mind if you go directly to him and debate it over whatever human game you can come up with,” Barbatos finishes for me, his feigned impassivity flickering. He lets out a mock sigh, as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders -- and then a more vulpine expression takes over his features, the facade crumbling away. “Difficult as always, I see. Time has done nothing to improve you.”

I can’t help but feel warm at the familiarity. It’s still him, after all these years.

“I could say the same.”

“The servants will take your things to your room,” he says, beginning to walk towards one of the many corridors connected to the entrance hall. I take a moment to look over my things, still holding my smaller bag. Contemplating the contents within. He casts a sidelong glance over his shoulder. “If you don’t want to be left behind, I would suggest you quicken your pace.”


	2. january 14th, 3:27 p.m.

Despite the poorly veiled warning in his words earlier, Barbatos makes little fuss over having to slow his pace. He matches my shorter, smaller strides, allowing me to walk beside him at a conversational pace, and makes the excuse of explaining the importance of some obscure painting or figure whenever he perceives that my body has strained itself too much. His words do well to hide my labored breathing from the other servants when they pass by, his voice taking on its typical toneless nature -- and I can’t help but feel a mixture of embarrassment and appreciation. Barbatos had made no comment regarding my frailty before my exchange year had ended in the Devildom, deflecting its effects much as he does now, but the absence of words could also indicate something else entirely. I wouldn’t be surprised, guarded as he is.

_ And he’s Lord Diavolo’s most loyal servant, _ I think to myself, my thoughts drawing me away from Barbatos’ spiel on the origins of a stone statue. _ It would be inappropriate for him to insult his lord’s friends. _

“Interesting, isn’t it?” Barbatos remarks.

“Oh, um, very,” I say, forcing myself back into the present. The stone statue is an odd one, depicting a serpent biting into the neck of a female figure. The woman holds what appears to be an apple in her hands, her body strangled by the serpent, and her eyes are completely covered by a segment of the serpent’s tail. It is a rather violent, oppressive piece; I do not hesitate to tear my eyes away from it. “Did Lord Diavolo commission for that to be made himself?”

“No.”

I nod in acknowledgment, focusing on a piece just beside the gruesome statue. “A collective, then? I know he’s fond of gathering anomalous art.”

“I was the one that commissioned it, actually,” he says, still regarding the statue. He studies it with an almost clinical eye, as if he were searching for some greater meaning within the horrible figure. “I had it made as a present for someone.”

I raise a brow. “They must not have liked it very much if it’s being kept here.”

“I never gave it to them,” he responds tonelessly. “I figured they would find it tasteless.”

“Oh.“

Barbatos finally meets my gaze with his, turning that same clinical eye onto me. “There are plenty of other art pieces on the way to the garden, if you would like further explanations on Lord Diavolo’s collection,” he offers. “I’ll have one of the maids bring you a glass of water as well. I believe it would be beneficial.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” I say, offering him an apologetic smile. I can’t help but feel a pang of guilt, despite the fact that he had been the one to offer. I reach a hand to the inside of my coat to reassure myself, feeling the hidden bag within. “But if -- if it wouldn’t be too much of a burden, it would be nice if she could bring a pitcher of water and a few glasses to the garden. Lord Diavolo would probably appreciate the refreshments.”

Barbatos nods. “I’ll let them know after I’ve escorted you to the garden.”

He begins to walk presumably in the direction of the garden once more, his pace marginally slower than before. I steal another glance at the statue, regarding the woman’s blinded state -- and then I am hurrying after Barbatos, doing my best to catch up to his longer strides. He waits for me to do so.

For all the time I had spent in the castle, I have yet to memorize the layout of its corridors and rooms. Then again, I had always been accompanied in the castle during my exchange year -- and so I had no need to memorize the paths within. It had been an obvious safety measure, of course, considering my health conditions, but the dangers of being transported to the dungeons via a painting, being devoured by a stray hellhound, and wandering endlessly in the halls had also been taken into account. Hence it had always been Barbatos who had been given the task of leading me around the castle. Given the frequency of my trips to the castle, it had become almost second nature to feel his presence at my side.

And I had found myself missing it, almost.

Barbatos leads me through endless, winding corridors. We pass by ornate stained glass windows, dizzyingly massive doors, and an innumerable number of other slightly narrower halls -- and then we are finally outside. I stop for a moment, my heart protesting. Barbatos stands a respective distance away from me and waits for me to catch my breath.

* * *

The flowers are thin and delicate, as if even a stiff wind could blow them from their roots. Yet they are still standing, small and proud, and I can’t stop myself from brushing my fingers against the white petals. The nostalgia nearly overwhelms me. I cast a glance at Barbatos from my seated position by the edge of the private garden, a smile overtaking my features.

“I can’t believe they’re still here!” I exclaim, unable to keep the excitement out of my voice. I return my gaze back to the nightblooms, cradling a particularly young bud in my fingers. Despite being a common flowering species native to the Devildom, nightblooms are not a particularly hardy sort. Their small stems are prone to breaking, especially if not grown under a watchful eye, and the telltale collected bundle of white petals tend to fall off if not given the proper care.

And here they are, after all this time.

“I thought it would be a waste to let them die,” says Barbatos. He stands by a small stone gazebo that is positioned deeper into the garden -- likely a measure built to keep out the presence to keep out unwanted company. “I had the gardeners pay greater attention to prevent such an outcome.”

“Is there any particular reason why?” I ask, now regarding Barbatos fully. I slowly rise to my feet, a measure to discourage my heart murmur from worsening, and begin to walk towards the gazebo. I take a seat on the stone when I pass him. “Common nightblooms don’t seem a very fitting flower for a prince regent to have in his garden.”

“You were certainly taken with them at the time.”

My face flushes slightly. “That’s -- I was homesick! You can’t blame me for getting a little upset,” I protest indignantly. “I genuinely thought flowers couldn’t grow here.”

Barbatos’ mouth quirks upwards. “If I recall correctly, you were bawling like a child in the middle of the garden. I would consider that to be more than a little upset.”

“I thought Lord Diavolo was supposed to meet me here,” I say, changing the subject.

“Lord Diavolo is currently meeting with the Celestial Realm representatives,” Barbatos informs me. “I was instructed to occupy your time until he could make his way here.”

_ So he’s babysitting me, _ I realize glumly. Still, there is the matter of the bag in my coat. If the rest of my time in the Devildom were meant to be taken up by endless meetings and waiting, now would be as good a time as any.

I slip the liqueur and roasted coffee beans out of my coat. “Barbatos, have you ever had --”

“No, I can’t say I have,” he says. “My pastries can stand well enough on their own. The inclusion would likely ruin the palate.”

Barbatos is still turned away, looking over the garden. My eyes flicker between the back of Barbatos’ head and the presents in my hand, confusion taking over my thoughts. “How did you know?”

Barbatos regards me over his shoulder. “I’m a pastry chef.”

“That doesn’t --” I stop myself, sighing. It had taken a considerable amount of time to find the particular bottle of liqueur to go along with the coffee. Not to mention the effort on my part to prevent the glass bottle from being shattered in the journey down to the Devildom. “We could try it together before I get swept away in meetings,” I offer, holding the bottle towards him. I place the bag of coffee beans beside me on the stone bench. “You can keep it for later, too, if you decide you want to try  _ carajillo  _ by itself.”

He is quiet for a moment, eyeing the bottle -- and then he is closing the distance between the entrance of the gazebo and my outstretched hand. Barbatos takes the bottle of liqueur gently in his gloved hands, inspecting it. I can’t tell if he can read the Spanish on the back of the bottle, given his completely set expression, but he seems to express enough interest in it to indicate that my efforts were not in vain. He uncorks the bottle, taking in its scent, and then he lifts the bottle to his lips. I watch as he coats his palate with the liquor.

“Pretty different from Demonus, right?” I say from my place on the bench, watching him. I can’t quite discern his opinion on the flavor. “It’s supposed to be warm, I think. Warm and sweet.”

Barbatos nods, finally swallowing the small sip of the liquor. “You haven’t tried this,” he observes.

“No, not yet. liqueur like that is a little too expensive to open up just to try.”

He regards the bottle again. “Would you like to?”

“If you’re alright with me drinking your present, then yes,” I respond. I rise from my place on the bench, intending to take the bottle from Barbatos. Barbatos steals another sip of the liquor, apparently fond of its taste, and I feel a sense of relief at having pleased the stoic demon. An apology, of sorts, for having to rely on him so much during my exchange year.

But he walks away from me, nearing the edge of the gazebo. Confusion crosses my thoughts, forcing me to come to a pause, and I open my mouth to speak. Barbatos places the liqueur on a ledge.

I blink.

I blink, and the taste truly is as sweet as I had imagined. Warm and soothing. The liquor washes over my tongue, warming me from the inside out, and the act forces me to swallow the liquid. Barbatos takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into my mouth, deepening the unexpected kiss. A gloved hand gently tips my chin upwards to his, allowing him greater access, and a hand at the small of my back prevents me from backing away. Keeping me in place. Barbatos’ verdant eyes bore into mine as I gulp down the remnants of the liquor, the liquid searing a fire into my core.

Barbatos releases my lips after a moment, as if he had wanted to be sure that I had swallowed the liqueur. Then he is nibbling at my ear lobe, his breath hot against my skin, and the sudden sensation makes me squirm in his embrace. His gloved hands travel beneath my overcoat, trailing along my spine. They undo the hooks of my bra from outside of my thin blouse.

_ What am I doing? _

I shove him off, my chest heaving. Barbatos simply allows me to do so, stepping back in turn. He regards me with an almost dispassionate gaze as I attempt to gather my bearings.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I demand, pressing a hand to my mouth. The edges of my lips are wet with liqueur that must have spilled during the act.

“Why would you -- why would you do that?”

He sighs. “Do you really not remember?”

“Remember what? If --” I stammer with indignation, “-- if it’s anything like that, then there definitely isn’t anything that comes to mind. I should be the one asking questions here!”

He regards me for a moment, wordless and unmoving. I stare back at him, my body blossoming with unwanted desire. A warmth not entirely from the liqueur begins to pool at the bottom of my stomach, curling itself into knots, and I do my best to fight the urge. But my will isn’t strong enough. The memory of what had happened only a few moments ago echoes through my thoughts, inciting an ache that begins to spread throughout my body. It pleads and pleads, enticing me to continue. Filling my head with all manners of copulation with the demon before me, despite my inexperience.

Barbatos’ waistcoat falls lightly to the stone floor of the gazebo. He loosens the neck of his dark shirt, undoing the first few buttons -- and then I am watching, rooted, as he shifts into a form more fitting of his being. Black, spiny protrusions sprout from the sides of his head, not quite horns, and the sides of his form seem to writhe beneath the confines of his dress shirt. I can’t force my body to move. In moments they are no longer concealed, the origins of the strange movements free of the fabric, and I stare down a black, green-tipped tail protruding from his spine. The thin, elongated extremity seems to move freely of its own accord in the air.

Barbatos regards me impassively, resting a hand on his hip. My blood has long turned to ice in my veins. I know, logically, that I should run, but it is my pure disbelief in the situation that prevents me from doing so. It is the memories of long hours spent drinking tea in his presence, the trust Lord Diavolo had instilled into me, and the simple fact that I had truly believed he and I were friends -- and yet it is also these memories that I scour through now, looking for an answer. Had he hated me all this time? Was the perceived friendship nothing but a duty on his part? And even if that is the case, why would he do this now?

_ He’s waiting for me to make a choice, _ I realize, observing his mostly motionless form. His tail twitches with impatience behind him. But what choice do I have other than running for my life? Any human in this situation would scream. Any human in this situation would do everything in their power to fight this demon before me and run -- given, of course, that Barbatos truly does intend to hurt me. Somehow, I can’t bring myself to believe that.

And so I choose to remain in place. I remain still as Barbatos approaches me, closing the distance between us until there are mere inches between our bodies. I do not avert my eyes from his when he tips my chin upwards with his tail. I do not so much as flinch when his gaze searches mine, nearly burning me, and I do not waver when a gloved hand rises to cradle a side of my face. Despite the situation, his thumb caresses my cheek with a strange tenderness.

“I can’t tell you how much it irritates me,” he says coolly. “This stubbornness of yours will lead to your death. What would you have done if I had intended to kill you?”

“Lord Diavolo will be here any moment now,” I say, disregarding his words. “If you stop now, I -- I won’t tell him anything.”

He cocks his head. “Like what?”

I blink, taken aback by his response. I hadn’t expected him to answer in such a casual manner. “Well, something like --”

My back is pressed to one of the pillars suddenly, the soft impact only slightly jarring. Then there is the sudden breeze at my back, inciting a shiver -- and I realize that my overcoat has been pulled away from my body, landing in a crumpled pile some distance away. Barbatos’ tail slithers up the length of my thigh, hiking my leg up to my waist. Barbatos breathes against my ear as his gloved fingers press to my labia, working gently against the soaked fabric of my panties, and his sharp teeth just barely scrape the sensitive skin at my neck. My former boldness crumbles beneath his ministrations, my body freezing out of instinct.

“Like this?” he finishes for me, his tone goading me. Daring me to speak. He draws back from my neck, fully facing me. “Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.”

His voice cuts through my thoughts. An unbearable heat courses through my body, tearing me away from my preserved state. The words rise and die in my throat, my embarrassment obstructing my ability to speak.

I sputter. “Lord -- Lord Diavolo will --”

“He won’t be here for another hour, forty-seven minutes, and thirty seconds.” His fingers slip into me, a vulpine smile gracing his features. I clench around the sudden intrusion, biting back a gasp, and the self-satisfied look his Barbatos’ face only intensifies. “If you relax, it’ll feel much better.”

“That can’t be true,” I protest, completely ignoring his second statement. Barbatos’ gloved fingers begin to work deeper into me, and I struggle to keep my composure. “All the representatives are supposed to meet with him at least an hour before the event. He -- he wouldn’t wait that long.”

“We can do this for that duration of time,” he offers. “Then we can put your statement to the test.”

“That isn’t what I meant!”

His fingers curl inside of me, clearing my thoughts of any further protests. The movement forces something akin to electricity to shoot through my body, my core flooding with unbridled desire. I feel myself nearing an orgasm with almost practiced efficiency. It is perfect, almost: I can remember myself fondling the area inside my pussy on quiet, lonely nights, bringing myself to release in the same exact manner. Aside from the position Barbatos has placed me in, the process stands nearly identical. As if he had known. Again I find my mind flashing with various positions and acts, the images oddly familiar. My legs over my head, Barbatos silencing my cries with his mouth as he takes me in the kitchen. My body on all fours, the demon reaching to play with my clit as he pounds me from behind. One leg between his and the other propped up on his shoulder, my body on the verge of release as his teeth sink into my shoulder.

_ But that can’t be right, much less possible, _ I think.  _ I’ve never -- _

Barbatos stops just short of my release, suddenly drawing his gloved fingers away from my dripping core. A pathetic whine leaves my lips before I can stop it, nearly begging him to continue. Despite the circumstances -- my unexpected partner, especially -- the ache has grown to an almost painful intensity, overwhelming my senses with need. My inhibitions to the act are mostly forgotten, some more logical part of myself buried underneath the desperation. Drowned beneath the resounding cries for more and more. 

Barbatos knows this. The salacious expression on his face is almost damning.

“It really does surprise me every time,” he says, regarding my flushed features. I try to look away from embarrassment, the proximity of his face to mine too close, but he gently but firmly holds me in place. “We don’t receive very many unsullied humans in this part of the realm, much less one as pure of yourself. It’s a miracle you haven’t been devoured by one of the lesser demons here.”

I narrow my eyes, trying to return to my senses. “And -- and why is that?”

Barbatos hums, thinking. “I suppose it would be our nature,” he explains nonchalantly. His fingers brush the source of the ache again and again, never quite satiating it, and I squirm. “When we see something so pure and uncorrupted, it is only instinct for us to drag it down with us. To defile it. To make it ours, above all else. I cannot even begin to explain the depths to which you have tested my self-restraint, human. How much you’ve pained me over the years. It really is cruel of you to pretend not to remember.”

“I -- I haven’t even done anything!” I retort, forcing away my more tempting thoughts. “There’s nothing you can do to make me remember something that never happened.”

“I see.”

He plunges his fingers back into me again, his intentions of simply bringing me to the edge abandoned. This time, it truly is an exact replica of my own actions: he curls his fingers in just the right places, deepens his ministrations just before the point of pain. Kisses the sensitive area just behind my ear, his sharp teeth nearly drawing blood, and bruises the skin with small, possessive marks. It’s almost too much. My eyelids flutter with my approaching release, my thoughts of protest now completely silenced.

I’m only vaguely aware of the questions that he whispers against my ear. His husky voice purrs, resounding through my body, and it is only moments before I find myself completely entranced in his embrace. My body gladly opens itself up to his attention, as if it wanted this from the beginning. As if it had expected this all along. I watch Barbatos though half-lidded eyes as he continues, my mouth parting in ecstasy.

And so when my release finally shatters my resolve, an unending white exploding behind my eyelids, I am in no position to stop him from fully sheathing himself into me.

Barbatos silences me with his mouth for a moment, allowing me to become accustomed to his length. A small mercy. I writhe in his embrace, the discomfort of the sensation nearly overwhelming the pleasure, but Barbatos’ gloved grip on my hip prevents me from escaping. Then he is bringing his free hand underneath my other thigh, hiking me further up the length of the column. Spreading my legs forcefully. The angle allows him to press deeper into my core, inciting another spark of pain. I whimper against his lips, my fingernails scrabbling uselessly at his back. This, too, he takes.

He presses his forehead against mine when he releases my mouth, groaning. My visage contorts in a mixture of pain and pleasure, the pain nearly overshadowing the pleasure, and I bite my lip to prevent myself from crying out. Barbatos seems to know this: he simply remains in place for the span of a few moments, rocking himself gently into me. The gesture is so unexpectedly gentle that I almost forget the circumstances of the situation. I almost forget that this is not fully of my own choice, that I am being taken advantage of by someone I had thought was a friend. My trust should be shattered. The betrayal should sting more than the sensation of his cock buried in my pussy. I should feel hurt, shocked, and enraged at his actions.

Yet I feel nothing of the sort. Barbatos thrusts experimentally, testing my limits, and suddenly there is nothing but warm, raunchy pleasure pooling at the bottom of my core, begging him for more. As if I were revelling in the embrace of an old lover.

Barbatos switches to holding me up with one arm as he begins to thrust harder, his tail winding securely at my waist. My curls flatten against my forehead as he takes me again and again. My whimpers slowly turn into moans as he continues, matching his soft hums and groans. Then he is caressing my cheek in that soft, placid manner again, despite the situation.

“I really can’t get enough of this face,” says Barbatos, his stoic mask completely undone. His face is flushed with both effort and desire, his usually toneless voice almost pained. Desperate. “I see it again and again, and yet I want more. I can’t be satiated. Why is that?”

“I -- I don’t --”

His hips begin to pound harder into mine, as if he were goaded on by some unpleasant thought, and the balance between pain and pleasure returns once more. I can no longer hold in my voice. My sighs and gasps echo throughout the small private garden, outside the confines of the gazebo. Barbatos seems to be near his limit, his voice joining mine -- and his tail unfurls itself from my waist to strum the sensitive bud just above my entrance. My fingers dig into the fabric of his dress shirt for a reason other than the pain I had initially felt, my pussy beginning to clench and spasm around his length.

I fall apart.

Barbatos finds his release moments after mine, capturing my lips with his. It is an effort to quiet himself, I realize. His groans are nearly agonized. Pleading. His words are unintelligible as he mumbles against my ear, stringing themselves into nearly inaudible questions. I strain to hear them even through the unbearable fullness, the aftermath of the act. He says them again, as if repeating a mantra, and once more I force myself to focus.


	3. january 14th, 12:04 p.m.

My chest heaves with effort, my breaths already labored and ragged, and I all but toss the suitcase onto the ground. Face flushed, lungs threatening to burst from my body. I press a hand to my breast, despite the uselessness of the gesture. Force myself to take slow, deep breaths, concentrating on the cobblestones of the ground before me. My heart pulses weakly in my chest, quick and abnormal in rhythm, but there lies little reason for concern. Not any more concern than the usual calls for, anyway.

“You alright, little lady?” asks the coachman, giving me a worried look. “Not looking so hot there.”

“Yes, I -- I think I just need a moment,” I wheeze, attempting to give him a reassuring smile. It doesn’t seem to work, given the deepening concern on his features, but I do my best to keep up the ruse. “I’m just a little winded, is all.”

His eyes flicker towards the rest of the bags in the back of the carriage. “I don’t think I’ll need any help with the rest, miss. Best you sit in the carriage.”

My mouth opens to protest, excuses for my condition on my lips, but a sharp look from the coachman encourages me to not to. I catch my breath on the side of the carriage for the few minutes that he needs to bring out the rest of my things, leaning on its wooden panels. Hand pressed to my chest, the other digging needlessly into the bag containing Barbatos’ present. It helps only marginally. When the coachman comes around the other side of the carriage to fetch me, there is still that same worried expression on his face.

“Going up to the castle, I take it?” It is more of a statement than an inquiry. He casts a glance towards the dark, looming castle, then back to his carriage. “I can escort you, if you want.”

I smile gratefully. “Thank you. Someone was supposed to meet me out here, but I think I arrived a little too early. I’m -- I’m here for the summit.”

The statement seems to spark an interest in his eyes. “Are you?” he says, scrutinizing me. “You’d think they choose a hardier human. Or at least an older one.”

My cheeks flush with indignation, my embarrassment about my condition expressed on my features. “I --”

“Don’t get yourself all twisted up,” he says, waving off my offense. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine. It’s those angels you’ve gotta worry about, really. Those are the ones that’ll do you in, the sneaky little bastards.”

My mind flashes briefly to Simeon and Luke. “I highly doubt that.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Betcha they’ll stab you in the back right when you’ve signed the lord’s peace treaty,” he says, pantomiming the action. His tone is still relatively casual, his expression belying the weight of his message -- but there is an odd stiffness to his words as he speaks. “We might be the heralds of temptation and all that, but they’re the one that cast us aside in the first place. For all their talk of unconditional love and forgiveness, they sure don’t practice their own beliefs.”

“You’re sure?”

He nods. “‘Course I am. None of their kind have fallen in a millennia -- what makes you think they’ll listen to us just because we’ve got some new lord in place? Most of the flighty bastards probably can’t imagine living a life that doesn’t involve smiting demons or latching onto humans.”

I want to refuse his words, of course. I want to tell him that he’s wrong, that Lord Diavolo’s proposed policies will bring in a new era -- but I can’t deny the obvious unrest amongst the demons. I can’t dismiss the seeds of doubt in the demon population, nor can I overlook the strict attitudes of the angels. It had taken years for the angels to agree to discuss relations between all three realms, and then there were the discussions of agreeing to hold a summit. It would be incredibly difficult -- and lengthy -- for treaties to be discussed and signed solely via letters, as it was.

With such precarious circumstances, to be optimistic about the outcome would be to lie to myself.

I sigh. “I appreciate the input.”

“As you should, little lady. You gotta listen to the common people.” He hoists all three of my bags over his shoulder with inhuman strength, taking a moment to balance them. “Ready to go?”

I push myself off the side of the carriage, my body accommodating the movement awkwardly. My heart has mostly calmed, my breathing steady, but something tells me trekking all the way to the demon lord’s castle would be an unwise decision. One that might be a little too hard on my body. While I can’t quite remember how long the journey is from here to the castle, my health also isn’t nearly as good as it was when I was a teenager.

“I don’t think I’ll make it,” I say, regarding the coachman with uncertainty. “It’s too far.”

He gives me an odd look. “After coming all this way? I’m pretty sure --”

“My -- my heart, I mean,” I say quickly, correcting myself. “I don’t think I’ll be able to walk all the way. Not without falling over.”

I wait awkwardly as the coachman mulls it over for a moment, eyes wandering around the carriage. Certainly it would be fine to take the carriage right up to the front of the castle -- but such a decision would have to be made under normal circumstances. With such an important, private conference to be held within the span of the next few hours, castle security had likely been tightened regarding the admission of castle guests. A carriage other than Lord Diavolo’s could very well bear a few hidden assassins and weapons.

He fixes me with an oddly determined gaze. “You good at riding?”

“I’m sorry?”

* * *

My legs are still trembling when the coachman drops me and my bags off at the entrance hall of the castle. Still, it had been a worthwhile effort: my heart pulses only slightly abnormal rhythm, the stress only coming from the terrifying experience of riding horseback. The coachman had certainly found an alternative to me walking the distance to the castle from the front gate, but he had also implemented his idea in the worst way possible. With no seat, straps, or anything to hold onto, riding the demonic horse had been one of the most frightening experiences I had ever had the misfortune of experiencing. If one could even call it that: the six-legged beast bore too great of a maw to be considered anything close to a human world horse, his body seemingly composed of shadow and ash. But I hadn’t fallen off, at least. The hellbeast had chosen to go after game birds only a few times during the course of the short journey, taking my screaming body along its impromptu hunt for meat, and the coachman had been too burdened with both fits of laughter and my belongings to stop him.

Having my own two feet on the ground is a blessed, wonderful feeling.

A sound further ahead grabs my attention. I look in the direction of the noise, only to see Barbatos emerging from one of the corridors connecting to the entrance hall. He drops into a great, sweeping bow, clearly exaggerating the movement, and I can’t help but feel a mixture of both warmth and irritability at the sight. The sight of seeing such a good friend after so many years is relieving, especially considering the circumstances -- but his obvious amusement at my terror on the way to the castle is marginally irritating. He had likely delighted in the scene from the view of one of the castle windows.

He hasn’t changed at all.

“You’re looking well, my Lady,” he says, his expression showing only the barest hints of amusement. “Did you find the trip enjoyable?”

I frown. “No, but I’m sure you did. And you don’t have to call me that.”

“But it is fitting for your station,” he counters. “Is there another name you would prefer to be addressed by?”

“Something else.”

Barbatos nods. “ _ Brujita _ .”

“That’s -- that isn’t something you would use to address someone like me,” I say a little too quickly, a slight heat creeping up my cheeks. “How do you even remember that?”

“You act as if the years mean anything to an immortal being,” he observes, a vulpine smile beginning to play at his otherwise stoic expression. His mask slips only slightly. “Is there any particular reason I should not remember?”

I sigh, an answer forming on my lips -- but he turns before I can speak, heading in the direction of one of the corridors. I cast a glance over my to-be unattended things in the middle of the entrance hall, unsure what to do with them. Or myself, for that matter. The expectations of my exchange year likely don’t apply here now, especially not under such different circumstances. But he gives me a sidelong glance after his shoulder after a moment, as if he had expected me to follow without invitation.

If you don’t want to be left behind, I would suggest you quicken your pace.”

* * *

The castle, like most of its residents, is an entity that exists without the tarnish of time. Despite my utter confusion while traversing its halls, it is obvious that the castle has seen little, if any, change since my last visit. The stained glass windows stand tall and proud still, bearing the images of demonic rulers and great beasts. The same ornaments and anomalous art pieces hang on the walls of the corridors, looking down upon passerby. Uniformed servants run to and fro in the castle, bearing bedding, brooms, and other various cleaning supplies, and the labyrinthine garden lies before the massive windows, each section of the garden bearing its own style of flora and sculptures.

And then there is the unchanging, nearly inscrutable demon walking just a few paces in front of me. His words mask my labored breathing as we continue along the corridor, and my pride thanks him over the beats of my pulsing, weak heart.

It is a kind gesture, truly.

My eye catches on a strange figure out of the corner of my eye, and I find my body instinctively turning in its direction. Pausing. Barbatos stops when he hears my footfalls cease, regarding me over his shoulder, and then he is following my line of sight. He comes to stand beside me after a moment.

“Are you fatigued?” he asks, studying me. His eyes linger on the hand that I have pressed to my heart -- a bad habit of mine -- and I quickly lower the hand to my side. “I can let Lord Diavolo know of your exhaustion, if need be. There is little need to expedite the meeting.”

I shake my head. “Not yet,” I say, trying to give him a reassuring smile. “I can go for a little longer.”

He is silent for a moment, perhaps considering refuting my words, but it is his position that obstructs his decision. “As you wish, then.”

“When was this put in?” I ask, trying to redirect the conversation. My eyes regard the statue before me, its image shrouded in a strange semblance of familiarity. Yet I can’t quite remember when or where I had seen the statue. “Did a human sculptor make this?”

“Not very long ago,” he responds. “I commissioned it from an artist in the Devildom.”

“I didn’t take you as the artistic type.”

The statue depicts a serpent coiling around the body of a nude woman, segments of its body wrapping around her torso and neck. She bears an apple in her hands, her mouth poised to bite into the fruit, but the serpent’s tail around her eyes seems to prevent her from doing so. Blinding her. While one would take it as a violent figure at first glance -- especially considering the serpent’s fangs lodged in her neck -- the posture of the woman seems to indicate otherwise. She does not appear to struggle against the serpent’s coils, nor does she seem to be particularly perturbed about being restricted from consuming the fruit.

It is an oddly poetic piece.

“You would be correct.” Barbatos looks upon the statue with severe distaste, as if mulling over some unpleasant thought. I try to consider the piece in his eyes, my eyes lingering on different parts of the statue, but I am unable to identify the source of his disapproval. “It was a complete waste of time and money.”

My gaze flickers to his, inquiring. “Was it? It looks pretty well made.”

“Which is precisely why it was a waste.” Barbatos turns in the direction of the end of the corridor. A silent indication. “Lord Diavolo has instructed me to occupy your time until your meeting,” he says, studying me with a clinical eye. “If you require refreshments or rest, I would suggest you make your needs known now. I would prefer not to have any of our representatives collapse before tonight’s summit.”

I feel a pang of embarrassment under his scrutiny, the intensity of his gaze much stronger than before. “Am I allowed to refuse?”

“I would suggest that you not.”


	4. january 14th, 2:11 p.m.

My fingers tremble in the frigid air. I do my best to hide them in the sleeves of my blouse, unfolding the ends to cover both my wrists and the small expanse of my hands, but the effort does little to resolve my lack of heat. Despite the cramped space of the kitchen -- it had obviously been made as an afterthought -- the walls and floor seem to do nothing but keep out the heat, leaving its stone floors and tiled walls cold to the touch. Even the chair had felt nearly frozen. It is nothing to demons, of course, considering their hardy nature, but it is almost unbearable for a regular human. Combined with my general inability to create heat and fragile constitution, the effect is exacerbated further on my body.

“You’re cold,” he observes.

“I am.”

“They’ll see it as a weakness.”

I stare into the reflection of the water for a moment, sighing. “I -- I know.”

“They’ll see it as a weakness if you try to hide it,” he says, clarifying his statement. “You shouldn’t be ashamed about something so trivial. Anyone who believes physical weakness has a bearing on your ability to rationalize is a fool.”

I blink up at him, surprised. He meets my gaze with his usual impassive one, his expression wholly unreadable. I open my mouth to speak, the words caught in my throat. Trapped by the sudden wave of both embarrassment and overwhelming, irrefutable happiness.

Barbatos rounds the corner of the wooden table. A gloved hand fishes out mine from underneath the table, and then it is only a moment before the cold glass is pressed into my hands. My ugly, bruised-looking fingers register the chill of the glass, flinching against the unwanted sensation. Curling instinctively to look for remnants of warmth. Yet I can’t bring myself to push it away. Barbatos’ hand lingers on mine for a moment, the fabric of his gloves cold against my skin.

And then it is gone. He immediately draws back, turning away from me.

“Lord Diavolo will likely run late to your meeting,” he informs me, beginning to walk towards the door. He bows quickly, intending to take his leave.“If you have need of anything else, I will --”

“Wait!”

Barbatos pauses mere paces away from the door. I stare back at him wordlessly, embarrassed by my inadvertent volume -- and then I begin to fumble in the pockets of my overcoat, the garment hanging over the chair. I procure the bag after a moment and place it on the wooden table.

“I -- I brought you something from the human world,” I explain quickly, trying to force away my flustered state. I remove the bag of coffee beans and expensive liqueur from the confines of the bag, pushing them a little in his direction. “I’ll probably be busy with meetings the rest of the time here, so I thought it would be nice if we could at least try the liqueur together.”

He eyes the liquor. “I wasn’t aware of your tastes.”

“I haven’t tried it yet, but I’m sure I would like it,” I say, taking the bottle in my hands. “And I know you don’t really have time, but I wanted you to have your first experience with  _ carajillo  _ with me. Or at least something similar.”

Barbatos looms in the doorway for a moment, eyes flickering between the coffee beans and the bottle of liqueur. Mulling it over.

Then he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, and I know I’ve won him over.

He reaches into the cupboards for glasses, placing them in front of me. Uncorking and dividing the liqueur between us, making sure to only measure out a moderate amount. There is that sliver of hesitation as he nearly stops himself, his hand pausing on the edge of the chair, but again he relents. He seats himself in front of me at the small table, gloved fingers playing at the edge of the glass. Waiting for my orders. It hurts me, almost, to see the difference in our stations now. The distance that stands between us.

I do my best to disregard the circumstances.

“Just like old times, right?” I say, raising my glass to his. He meets the edge of it, and I smile. “All we need is Lord Diavolo, and --”

“You should be more worried about the summit,” he interrupts me, the tone of his voice suddenly sharp. He meets my gaze with a fire I hadn’t expected, his stoic mask slipping, and I nearly startle at the sight. “You will be involving yourself in dealings with beings beyond your control. Beyond any power you could ever imagine. Aren’t you afraid?”

_ How useless, _ I chide myself, lifting the glass. The liquor burns a path down to my core, as expected, the sweetness leaving its remnants on my lips.  _ All this time to prepare, and I can’t even lie to the one I -- _

“Of course I am,” I say. I set my glass quietly onto the table, its contents drained. “But I can’t think about it now. I already decided that before I came here, you know. That I wouldn’t be afraid.”

“You could have sent another in your place.”

“I couldn’t do that either.”

“It would have made little difference,” he counters, eyes flickering briefly to the amber liquid in his glass. It remains untouched. “I imagine that your stance on the peace treaty was made before you came here.”

“Well, yes.”

“Then why bother to come here? Why knowingly put yourself in danger?” There is only the barest hint of frustration in his tone. I watch as the asymmetrical lock of his hair falls from its place behind his ear, obscuring his expression. Shrouding him from me. His gloved fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the glass. “You’re only human. Mortal. Even if the peace treaty passes by all the representatives of the three realms, most humans wouldn’t even know to appreciate the act. Why fight for such an ungrateful world?”

I hum, thinking for a moment.

“I think that if I sent someone in my place -- if I chose not to take part in the discussion at all -- I would regret it,” I say, my voice measured. Then I shake my head, immediately refuting my words. “No. I know I would regret that decision for the rest of my life, regardless of the outcome. I wouldn’t be able to simply sit and watch.”

Silence settles between us. Separating us. I can perceive the questions that are on the tip of his tongue. The air is thick with unspoken demands and inquiries, his inaction expressing more to me than he could ever explain in words.

_ You could die, _ he wants to say.  _ You are only a weak, powerless human, and you could very well die for nothing. You had options, and you chose the most dangerous one out of all of them. How could you be so stupid? How could you be so stubborn? How can you be so willing to throw your life away? _

I don’t wait for him to speak.

“My actions and decisions have so much more weight because of that, don’t you think?” My skin is warmed by the almost familiar embrace of the liquor, my cheeks slightly flushed in the emerging heat. Barbatos’ features are still obscured by both his position and the lock of hair -- and so I reach over, gently placing the lock of hair behind his ear once more. He looks at me with surprise, his mask having dissipated completely. “Humans like me have such short, insignificant lives compared to demons. I know that much. But don’t you think that gives us all the more reason to stand up for each other? To protect one another? Even if my love for the human world is never recognized, I would rather live knowing I did everything in my power to stop a war.”

My fingers linger over the side of his face, just barely brushing against his bare skin. His skin is cold, of course, considering the sort of demon that he is -- but to me, it is the warmest sensation. He does nothing when I place my palm against his cheek, a finger caressing his frigid skin, and I do nothing when he presses into my touch, his lips meeting my palm. It is one of the only times I have ever dared to touch his bare skin. Barbatos merely keeps my hand there for a moment, his gloved one rising to encapsulate mine.

It’s still him, after all these years.

“That’s why I can’t run now,” I say, smiling warmly at the demon before me. “There’s nothing that would make me abandon my duty.”

Barbatos is silent for a few moments, his lips still pressed to my palm -- and so when he finally speaks, I miss his words. His mouth moves almost inaudibly against my skin, muffled.

“Barbatos?”

“What would it take?” he repeats, finally pulling away from my palm. His gloved hand remains on mine, holding it gently but firmly in place. Something unfamiliar flickers in his eyes. “What would it take to stop you?”

I furrow my brows together, not quite understanding the change in his demeanor. “I don’t think I get your meaning.”

I try to pull my hand away from Barbatos, but his grip only tightens around my hand. A vice. He draws me closer, pulling me out of my seat -- and the world suddenly shifts, the vertigo forcing a sheet of gray to overtake my vision. My heart nearly erupts under the effects of the dizziness and the panic rising within me. I squeeze my eyes shut, awaiting some horrible, painful impact.

My back meets wood, padding gently against the cold surface.

I open my eyes to see the image of Barbatos hovering over me. Again there is that unfamiliar look in his eyes -- but this time, it is accompanied by the telltale signs of his demon form. Black, spiny protrusions sprout from the side of his head. His waist coat rips audibly as his tail erupts from the end of his spine, its green tip making itself known in the air behind him. The sclera of his eyes blacken, his chartreuse pupils standing in sharp contrast. He looks over my trapped form almost impassively.

“If I do this, would it stop you?” he asks, echoing his own words. “If I took you right here and now, would it stop you from attending the summit?”

I swallow dryly, trying to force down the rising panic. “Is -- is this some sort of joke?”

“Is it?” he muses. His tail draws itself up the bare flesh of my thigh, wandering dangerously close to the space between my legs. I begin to close them out of instinct, attempting to ward off the attention of his tail -- but he catches the movement before I can do so. A gloved hand pins one leg to the wooden table, his tail wrapping around the other. Amusement sparks in his otherwise expressionless visage. “I wonder.”

My eyes widen as I feel the fabric of my panties ripped from my body. The scraps flutter uselessly to the floor, the space between my legs suddenly exposed to the cold air of the kitchen, and --

His tail thrusts into my pussy before I can react, spearing me through. I open my mouth in surprise, a scream building at the back of my throat -- but Barbatos silences me before I can do so, smothering my cries. His tongue shoves past my lips, exploring the inside of my mouth. A gloved hand fists into the curls at the back of my head. His tail continues to work its way in and out of my core, reaching deeper than I would have ever been able to with my fingers. Nearly violent in its movements.

Yet there is little pain. Despite the discomfort upon the first few thrusts, my pussy was wet and almost willing by the time Barbatos’ tail had thrust inside, enveloping it in a welcoming warmth. As if it were trained for such a situation. He draws back from me over and over again, each kiss becoming more desperate than the last. He bites the bottom of my lip when I try to protest, my hands pushing against his shoulders, and my surprise at the act allows him to desecrate me once more. My pussy floods with an unwanted pleasure as his tail continues to thrust in and out of my folds. I want to ask him why he is doing this, how he could ever find it in himself to do this -- but each forceful push of his tail into me scatters my thoughts.

It is only when I have just begun to near my orgasm that Barbatos draws himself away, both of us gasping in the aftermath. My eyes draw themselves downwards.

“I really do love this face of yours,” he says, revelling in my shock. His hand pumps up and down along his length, evidently preparing himself. “So pure and untouched. You almost make me want to tear you apart over and over again.”

A moment of clarity hits me.

“You -- you --”

“So you do remember.” A trace of amusement crosses his features, marring his otherwise dispassionate features. “But how much? Should I test it out?”

Barbatos plunges into me without ceremony. My face contorts in pain for a moment, the pain of the sudden intrusion encompassing whatever pleasure I may have gained. There is no mercy in the act. No gentleness. Whatever perception of Barbatos I had had beforehand has effectively dissipated into thin air, each trace of the perceived kindness of the demon twisting itself into something else with each thrust. Tearing apart each and every kind thought I had ever possessed about the demon.

_ So he was right all along, _ I think with an almost sentimental air.  _ Never trust a demon. Never believe a demon. Never fall in love with a demon. _

But I can’t bring myself to hate him.

His tail begins to play at the pink divot of my ass, the green tip of it pressing against the entrance. Testing me. I struggle against its probing attention, squirming in Barbatos’ embrace, but his tail has already prepared itself from the slickness of my channel. I gasp as I feel it pop past my ring, forcing its way past the resistance.

It should hurt. I should feel as if I were being ripped apart through the entirety of the act, according to what I had read on the subject. Barbatos had done so little to prepare me. My channel should be nothing but dry, aching, and sore -- but it is as if my body had wholly expected this to happen.

Barbatos suddenly drags me closer to the edge of the table, forcing me to unwrap my legs around his waist, and props them against his shoulders. The angle allows him to reach deeper, strike harder at my core. What had been painful has suddenly metamorphosed into a raunchy, warm pleasure, despite the circumstances, and a moan slips past my lips before I can stop it from doing so. I try to bite back any other gasps or sighs of pleasure, refusing to let him know of the sudden shift in my reaction. Forcing down the ache that threatens to overwhelm my conscience.

But the demon seems to perceive how close I am to release. He lowers himself to me, wrapping my arms around my waist. Each movement of his shaft inside of my channel seems to evoke new sparks of white-hot pleasure, my thoughts effectively torn apart. He shifts his angle just slightly, his cock raking against spots I had never known were there, and I breathe his name. Then it is a mantra. He hits the same areas again and again, heightening the sensation to an almost excruciating level. My fingernails scrabble uselessly at his back. I feel myself on the brink of release, my orgasm mere moments away from fruition.

And then he stops.

I regard Barbatos through half-lidded eyes, panting. “Why did you stop?”

“I thought it was necessary.” Barbatos cradles the side of my face with a gloved hand, amusement evident on his features, and turns my visage this way and that. Inspecting me. “I imagine that you want me to continue.”

My heart nearly drops at the possibility of him denying my release. “Yes, yes, please --”

“On one condition.”

I nod profusely. “Anything.”

“You are not to leave my side during the summit.” It is more of an order than a proposition. “At no point should you find yourself unaccompanied during the course of your stay here. Should you find either Lord Diavolo or I unavailable, you are to be in direct contact with Solomon or another trusted individual.”

“That’s -- that’s it?” I can’t help but stare at Barbatos with incredulity. “I would have agreed to those terms if you had just asked.”

His smile is almost sardonic. “I thought this way would be more fun. Do we have a deal?”

“I’m not some child to be supervised.”

Barbatos cuts me off with a sudden shift in his angle, lodging himself deeper inside me, and I gasp. “I can’t remember asking for your opinion,” he says, pulling my face close to his. “I asked if we had a deal.”

Barbatos begins to draw himself from me, both his tail and his shaft leaving a wanting absence behind. Leaving me with an unsatisfying emptiness. I feel the blossoming ache at my core begin to protest, my pussy clenching instinctively on his length, but Barbatos only continues to slowly distance himself from me. In moments, he has fully drawn himself from inside of me, the tip of his shaft only barely pressing at my entrance.

_ He really means it, _ I realize.

I do my best to wrap my legs around him again, despite their awkward position above my head. “I agree! I agree to the conditions, so please --”

It’s all he needs for encouragement. Barbatos thrusts himself into me in one stroke, fully sheathing his shaft inside. His tail follows suit, filling the emptiness. I can’t quite tell how long it takes for my body to build itself up to release again -- it could be moments to minutes to hours -- but it does come. My eyelids flutter as my body begins to writhe.

A blinding white overtakes my vision when I finally do reach it, Barbatos’ name on my lips once more. He presses his lips to mine again, intending to silence me, but this time the kiss is completely unlike the others. It is demanding, yes, nearly devouring me -- but it is also telling of a desperation beneath the act. Hopelessness. It is strangely gentle, despite his prior treatment of my body. My channel twitches and clenches around his cock as I ride out the waves of my orgasm, the intensity of it overbearing.

But I manage to stay conscious for a few moments longer. I watch through the haze as Barbatos finally pulls himself out of me, the evidence of my release dripping from his cock. He flips my body over on the table, spreading my legs apart as I am forced to stand against it, and plunges into me once more.

The taste of the liqueur still burns against my lips.


	5. january 14th, 12:42 p.m.

I stand in the grand entrance hall of the castle, leaning on one of my suitcases as I wait for Barbatos to arrive. Assuming that Barbatos would be the one to greet me at the door. Then again, I can hardly imagine a reason why he wouldn’t be the one to greet me. Both the exterior and interior of the castle have seen little, if any, change over the years, and so it would only make sense for the stony-faced demon to remain in his position.

Just as expected, Barbatos is the one who rounds the corner. He bows deeply the moment he catches sight of me. If he is surprised by my earliness -- or my presence, considering the years that have passed -- he does not show it. His gaze is unreadable when he rises from the gesture.

“My Lady,” he addresses me. “You look well.”

“Is that how you greet a friend?” I ask, smiling. “In the human world, we call them by name and give them a hug.”

“That would be inappropriate.”

“It’s been years, Barbatos,” I chide him. I step away from my bags, nearing Barbatos with my arms outstretched. “Do manners really mean anything now?”

“Yes.” He sidesteps my attempt to hug him at the last moment, leaving me stumbling where he was, and begins to head towards one of the corridors connecting to the entrance hall. “Lord Diavolo has agreed to hold your meeting in one of the gardens. If you’ll follow me --”

“I was actually wondering if you could show me to my room,” I say quickly, cutting him off. He pauses just at the entrance of the corridor, regarding me with a sidelong glance. “It’s -- it took a long time to get down here, and I’m a little tired,” I add. “Do you think Lord Diavolo would be alright with rescheduling our meeting?”

Barbatos is quiet, likely deciding the consequences of such a request. He sighs after a moment. “I trust that you will take it upon yourself later to discuss with him, then.”

I nod. “Of course.”

* * *

My heart protests only a few times during the journey. Barbatos slows his pace to allow me to walk beside him with ease, shortening his long strides, and I take the opportunity to admire the artwork placed in the halls as we continue. I pause occasionally to catch my breath, and Barbatos speaks on the history of some of the artwork when other servants pass. My legs tremble from the strain of walking so far and in such strange, winding paths. Barbatos allows me to gather my strength each time, studying me with a clinical eye. I nearly catch the worry that flickers in his gaze.

It is evident, after a few minutes, exactly why Lord Diavolo had chosen to meet me in one of the private gardens. The guest suites are placed as far away from the entrance hall as possible for the sake of protection. An attempt to discourage any assassins or other unsavory characters from harming one of Lord Diavolo’s guests with the sheer distance. Barbatos makes no comment as I make more frequent stops, my hand pressing above my heart, and I make no comment on my own condition as Barbatos’ pace slows more and more.

I appreciate him all the more for it.

“Your stubborn character will be the death of you,” he finally says.

I try to give him a reassuring smile. “I -- I know. I just thought that it would be much closer.”

“I see.”

I nearly collapse against the brocade wallpaper, my free hand propping my body up. Uneven breaths escape my lips, despite my efforts to calm my heart, and it takes nearly all of my willpower to force away the pained expression that threatens to overtake my features. My body trembles from both the cold and the overexertion. The tips of my fingers take on a bluish tinge from the limited circulation, and I try to hide them in the sleeves of my blouse. I focus on the tip of Barbatos’ shoes as I try to breathe normally, willing my heart to return to its former state.

_ How humiliating, _ I can’t help but chide myself.  _ To be surrounded by immortal beings and still -- _

My eyes widen as my body suddenly shifts, my perspective changing to accommodate the difference in height.

“I see that the years have done nothing to improve you,” says Barbatos, adjusting his arms to properly carry me bridal style. I blink up at him as he does so, surprise registering on my features. He regards me with only the slightest tinge of annoyance. “You’re even more difficult than you were back then.”

My face flushes. “You -- you don’t have to --”

“I do,” he deadpans, frowning. “What will it take to stop you from being so bullheaded?”

“Collapsing, probably.”

“Without that.”

With my body secured in his arms, Barbatos moves at a much faster pace. Still, he does take the time to point out various pieces of interest. The hallways become no less complex, given the sheer size of the castle, and I find myself nearly becoming dizzy at the sight of massive archways and endless corridors. Barbatos drones on regarding the statues and paintings that we pass, if only to fill the silence. Try as I might to pay full attention to his words, the monotonous tone of his voice discourages me from doing so.

Something familiar catches my eye.

“Is that one yours?” I ask, inadvertently interrupting a spiel on the origins of a Renaissance-era relief.

Barbatos gives me an odd look. “Everything in this castle belongs to Lord Diavolo.”

“I -- I know that, but --” I stammer awkwardly, trying to find the words, “-- it looks like something you would like. Or something that you would have commissioned.”

The statue depicts a serpent embracing a nude female figure, protecting her from a presumably poisoned fruit. The apple remains unbitten in her hands. The serpent’s fangs appear to have sunken deep into her neck, discouraging her from consuming the offending fruit -- and yet the action has also doomed her. An act of love twisted into something else entirely.

Barbatos’ lips press into a thin line, his gaze drawing slowly over the statue before us. He looks upon it with disapproval, as if offended by some aspect by the piece. “I did, yes.”

“Then why hide it away in such a deep part of the castle?” I ask.

“It is distasteful.”

“That’s a strange word to call such a beautiful piece,” I muse, looking upon the work. Despite its rather gruesome depiction, it is obvious that the statue was made with a great deal of attention to detail. Each curl of the figure’s hair has been chiseled with delicacy, lending an almost realistic appearance to the piece. Each scale of the serpent’s body has been carved with care. “If I were Lord Diavolo, I would try to place it somewhere more visible,” I continue. “In the garden, maybe. It’s a shame for something like this to be hidden away.”

Barbatos studies me for a moment, quiet. His gaze flickers to the statue. “If that is your request, I can make it so.”

“Would you?” I look up at him from my position, catching his gaze, and a smile pulls at my lips. “I would appreciate it.”


	6. january 14th, 2:58 p.m.

My legs are cold with lack of use when they finally meet the floor again, my balance wavering, but it is a much better alternative than collapsing in one of the endless hallways. The guest room is spacious as expected, bearing a queen-sized bed, a number of furnishings, and a door that presumably leads to a bathroom. The curtains have been drawn away from the massive window that overlooks the space, allowing the false moonlight of the Devildom to filter into the room. Barbatos moves to flick on one of the lights near the doorway, a gloved finger pressing against the switch. It doesn’t turn on.

Barbatos sighs. “If you’ll wait here, I can call for one of the servants to fix the light fixture,” he says, regarding the offending object with annoyance. “This is one of our warmest rooms. I imagine that transporting you to another would have consequences on your health.”

“I don’t really mind,” I say, stricken by a small pang of guilt. “It’s plenty bright in here, anyway.”

“So you would rather stay in the dark for the remainder of your time here?”

“If it means I’m not being too much of a burden.” I take in the illumination over the various furnishings over the room. As long as there is enough false moonlight by the bed for me to do paperwork, there is little reason to go through the effort. “I’m sure they have much more important things to do than fix lights at the moment.”

Barbatos fixes me with a withering look, as if he were offended by the very idea of there being an insufficient number of castle servants. “You are a guest,” he deadpans. He begins to turn on his heel, intending to head back towards the door. “We will have no guest of --”

_ Don’t leave, please. _

“Wait!”

The words are a little too forceful, prompting Barbatos to stop in his tracks. Embarrassment begins to trail its way up my cheeks, but I do my best to ignore the sensation. I quickly take off my overcoat, undoing its pockets in an attempt to find his present. I procure the bag containing the liqueur and roasted coffee beans after a moment.

“I -- I brought you a present from the human world,” I explain, presenting the bottle of liqueur to him. I place the bag of coffee beans on a nearby end table. “It’s liqueur. I meant for us to try  _ carajillo  _ together, but I figured that we wouldn’t be able to find the time.”

Barbatos regards the bottle in my hands, eyeing the amber liquid encased within the glass. “You want me to drink during work hours.”

“Well, yes.”

“I cannot even begin to explain how inappropriate that would be.”

“It’s not like I’m asking you to drink the whole bottle,” I say, trying to justify my argument. “And it’s just us here. I won’t tell.”

Barbatos is silent, eyes flickering between me and the bottle in my hands -- but he relents eventually, a gloved hand reaching to pinch the bridge of his nose. It is almost satisfying to see the stoic demon fall beneath my wishes.

I uncork the bottle of liqueur quickly and efficiently, placing the cork beside the bag of coffee beans. Press the glass bottle against my lips, feeling the familiar burn of the liquor making its way down my throat. Warm, heady, and sweet. I swallow the first mouthful, of course. An awakening for my palate. My eyes flicker to Barbatos, who still stands in the same place. Good. I tip my head back as I take another swill into my mouth, holding the liquor against my tongue.

Barbatos looks upon me with an almost disapproving stare, regarding the reduced amount of liquor in the glass bottle. “If you’re going to offer me a present, the least you could do is --”

I wrench him down by his shoulders with as much force as I can, standing on the tips of my toes. My hands reach to cradle the sides of his face, keeping him in place, and I quickly press my lips to his. He opens his mouth to speak. I take the opportunity to release the liquor past his lips, allowing the liqueur to wash over his tongue. Relishing in the sudden heat burning at my core.

He had kissed me among the nightblooms, once. I do my best to echo the act.

The false moonlight illuminates his features when I pull away, a grin of victory gracing mine.

“Was it good?” I tease him, squishing his cheeks slightly with my palms. “That liqueur was pretty hard to find.”

Whatever restraint Barbatos had possessed crumbles away in an instant. His lips are pressed to mine again, hungry and desperate, and I meet him with a fire of my own. His gloved hands tangle in my curls, as if he were afraid of me slipping between his fingers. As if he were afraid of me dying in his arms again. He kisses me over and over again, leaving me breathless, and I gladly let him do so. When my legs begin to tremble from the effort of balancing on my toes, he simply picks me up and seats himself on the bed, placing me in his lap.

I fumble awkwardly with the buttons of my blouse, my fingers too devoid of feeling to push them through the button-holes. Barbatos all but tears my blouse away from my form, tossing it elsewhere in the room. My bra follows suit, and it is only moments before I feel his mouth latch onto one of my breasts, sucking and marking the skin there. I shudder as his forked tongue begins to flick against one of my nipples, a gloved hand kneading the flesh of the other. I simply wrap my arms around him, embracing the demon with as much warmth as I can muster.

I feel the effects of his transformation before I see it. His teeth lengthen and sharpen against my breast, grazing my skin. The sides of his skull erupt with black, spiny protrusions, the blood running lightly against my fingers, and his tail rips audibly through his clothing. I sigh against him as his tail reaches between my legs, playing with my clit through the thin fabric of my panties. Caressing the bare flesh of my thighs.

Barbatos pulls away suddenly, holding my gaze. His eyes are dark, even in the illumination of the false moon.

“Why?” he asks. His voice is brittle. Pained. “Why now?”

My hand draws a longer lock of his hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear. “Does it matter?”

_ I just wanted to know, _ I think to myself, doing my best to kiss away his doubt. Silencing him. But there are questions on the tip of my tongue as I regard him through half-lidded eyes.

_ How many times have you done this, Barbatos? _

_ How long have you trapped us in this cycle? _

Barbatos seems to deem it enough of an answer, and he nearly melts beneath my touch. His tail continues to play with my clit through the fabric, curling and flicking the sensitive nub, and I reach a hand down to his cock. My fingers trace the outline of his cock through his trousers. I catch his hand before it can reach between my legs, and he looks at me with surprise.

“I want us to do it together,” I explain, a sheepish smile emerging onto my features. “I want to make it feel good for you, too.”

For all the cycles Barbatos has forced us through, it is an entirely new position. He directs my knees to the sides of his head and encourages me to lower myself onto his waiting mouth, his hands gripping my thighs. I nearly jump when his forked tongue begins to flick the underside of my clit, a finger caressing my folds, but his hands keep me firmly in place.

The novel position is embarrassing, almost. Despite all the positions and acts we have experienced together, all the places in which he has taken me again and again, the concept of mutual, willing pleasure is foreign. Unfamiliar. For once, both of us are completely unclothed, the contrast of his pale skin against my olive tone evident in the limited light. And then there is the aspect of my most private parts bared to him. There is no place to hide. Hiding would mean denying me his vulnerability and him mine. Hiding would mean undoing all my efforts up to now, bringing us back to when I was only marginally aware of the slip in time.

And so I endure.

My hand pumps up and down the length of his cock, encouraging him from half-mast to full hardness. I take him into my mouth after a moment, savoring the salty taste of his precum. I suck lightly at the tip as my hand works the shaft, revelling in the soft groans against my pussy. I take him further into my mouth again and again. Suppress the urge to choke. His cock drips with both precum and saliva when my mouth finally pops free of his length.

My hands rest on his chest when I twitch and clench around his shaft, my face contorting slightly in pain. Despite the memory of taking him countless times before, the actuality of the sensation is completely different -- and I bite back a whimper as I push my body further down his shaft. Wrapping myself around him.

Barbatos looks at me with concern. “You can take your time,” he says, his hands hovering just over my waist. “If it hurts too much, we --”

“No,” I interrupt him, gritting my teeth. “Let me.”

In the end, it is Barbatos who ends up taking the helm. I remain straddling him, my curls spilling over the both of us -- but it is Barbatos who pushes his length in and out of my pussy, hitting each and every spot he knows of to ease the pain. Pressing soft, gentle kisses against my collarbone and neck in an attempt to distract me, his sharp teeth just barely grazing my skin. It is only when he is sure that I am no longer in pain that he begins to truly take control. Reaching deeper, thrusting faster, devouring me more and more. Tearing me apart in the most wonderful ways possible.

I will die tonight. I know that much. The spear will strike me through my chest, shattering my ribcage with the force of the thrust. I will collapse against the marble floor of the corridor, mere paces away from the conference hall, and my breaths will be ragged and uneven as I struggle to stay conscious. For once I will be warm, my blood pooling steadily around my dying form. I will try to scream, of course. I will try to scream for help again and again as I futilely drag my body towards the entrance of the conference hall, the blood filling my throat. Sobs racking my body. And then there will be the sound of footsteps approaching. My heart will flutter with hope.

The spear will pierce through my throat and into the marble. I will die a pathetic, gasping death, choking on my own blood.

And so I lose myself. I do not think of my own mortality, the abnormal beating of my heart, or the pain that is to come. I do not think of the hopeless, pained expression that will emerge on Barbatos’ face when he discovers my glass-eyed body at the foot of the stairs, the dark blood still running freely from my mouth. I do not think of how much I regret returning to the human world, my decision spurred on by some blind, misguided sense of duty. How much I would have loved to spend my last moments with him.

For all the power Barbatos has as a demon, some things truly are set in stone. Destiny, some would call it. A senseless, horrible fate.


	7. january 14th, 6:49 p.m.

I sit uncomfortably in front of the vanity as the demonic servant fusses over my dark curls, attempting to pin the mass into something more manageable. More professional, according to her. She reaches only a partial success: while she manages to wrangle most of the curls back into a low bun, a few rebellious strands fall from the confines of the hairstyle. The dark curls frame the rounded angles of my face, somehow softening my features even more. Making me appear younger than I already look.

I sigh inwardly, trying to hide my disappointment from the servant. Even with our combined efforts, I still look like nothing more than a --

“Do all humans look like you?” she asks, suddenly taking my face between her fingers. She turns my face this way and that, inspecting the makeup that she has already applied on my face, and her eyes flicker to the products still set out on the vanity. There is more work to be done, evidently. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you looked like one of those porcelain things. With the curls and painted eyes and all that.”

“A doll?” I venture.

She snaps her fingers. “Exactly! Doll-like,” she says, taking a container of setting powder into her clawed hands. She pops open the container, dips the sponge delicately into its contents, and begins to dab the sponge delicately against the high points of my face. “I saw the other one walking ‘round here today, but I didn’t realize humans could be this small.”

I fluster slightly. “I -- I’m pretty sure I’m just a little below average height.”

The servant only hums in response.

I had done everything I could to completely avoid Barbatos upon my arrival at the castle, of course. I had requested for another servant to show me to my room, citing my sheer exhaustion from the journey to the Devildom, and I had made sure to reject any and all of his attempts to make direct contact with me. He had offered to bring my things to my room himself after I had gotten settled in, attempting to uphold the pretense of security, and I had said no. He had offered to bring me a cup of tea and something to counteract my iron deficiency, claiming it to be an order from Lord Diavolo, and I had adamantly refused. Barbatos had stopped by my room himself once or twice over the course of the day to check on my health, and I had all but pushed him out of the room each time.

To be alone with Barbatos would mean to arrive late to the summit, and to arrive late to the summit would mean to allow Barbatos the opportunity to turn back time once more. I would not allow Barbatos to hurt himself any longer through the futile effort.

But there was that look of hurt that crossed his features as I did so. A stinging, quiet rejection. I had averted my eyes from the sight.

Nearly half an hour later, the servant helps me button up my rather frilly, blouse. I regret choosing the specific article of clothing. The billowing sleeves tend to swallow my small frame, the stark white of the fabric standing as a little too great of a contrast against my skin tone. The more structured nature of my skirt offsets the soft tones of the blouse, giving it a more professional air -- but it still does little in the way of giving me a more fitting appearance. Not of one of the human world’s representatives, anyway.

_ It’s no wonder I was the one singled out _ , I think glumly, staring at myself in the mirror.  _ Solomon would have never worked as a martyr. _

I do my best to push the thoughts away, instead drawing my gaze to my overcoat slung over the chair. It still contains the liqueur and coffee beans.

“Would you happen to know Barbatos?” I ask the servant, regarding her through the mirror. The servant stares at me, momentary confusion crossing her features, and I quickly add, “I have a favor I wanted to ask of you.”

“Shoot.”

“I have something I wanted to give to him, but I completely forgot about it earlier. I don’t think I’ll have the time after the summit, either,” I explain. “Would it be alright if you brought something to him?”

“Like hell I’m giving that stony-faced snake anything,” deadpans the servant, her expression set.

“Oh.”

I simply look at her for a moment, completely taken aback by her tone -- but the demoness erupts into laughter after a moment, her set expression quickly overtaken by a devilish smile. She pauses in the middle of fiddling with one of my curls so as not to ruin her earlier efforts.

“Anything for you, girlie,” she says, grinning. “How could I deny the hope of the Devildom such a simple favor?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Come on, don’t pretend like you don’t know! That sorcerer might be able to conjure up spells and all that, but the lord’s got his bets on you to finish the job,” she says, twisting a comb between her clawed fingers. “And we are all tired of fighting, you know. The endless bloodshed and murders. The lord said it himself -- that you know these angels better than anyone. That they’ll listen to what you have to say. Even with the change of reps, he was sure you’d be the one to convince them.”

It dawns on me.

“They replaced the representatives,” I echo.

The servant bites down on a hair pin, intending to try to tame my curls once more. “Last minute, too. Isn’t that a little unprofessional?”

I swallow dryly in the aftermath of my realization, my heart nearly stopping in my chest. I can only find myself able to nod wordlessly.

The servant regards her work once more, pinning one last curl away from my face. “There we are,” she says, smiling in approval. “I’ll hurry up and escort you to the conference hall, if you would like.”


	8. january 14th, 8:26 p.m.

The air of the Devildom is frigid, chilling me to the bone. Still, I do not dare retreat back inside. Not yet. Sitting for so long in the conference hall had already caused enough damage to my limbs, as it would occur, and my low circulation has already locked up the joints of my body. Not that it would matter: the outcome would be the same. I idle with the petals of a nightbloom that has managed to climb its way up the balcony, admiring its simple beauty. Distracting myself from what is to come.

I hear the door to the balcony open and close behind me, clicking softly back into place. Barbatos.

“You should head back inside,” he chastises me. “I imagine this is rather detrimental to your health.”

He is right, of course. My cheeks have flushed in reaction to the cold, my small body shivering. My fingers have long gone numb, my condition exacerbated by the lack of heat. An insignificant suffering. And so I ignore his suggestion, remaining in place against the stone rail of the balcony. Pressing the petals of the nightbloom between fingers that have long lost their ability to feel.

I turn to him after a moment, regarding him beneath the light of the false moon. Even without his true form revealed, it is obvious that Barbatos is a demon. The illumination seems to make his skin appear even paler than usual, his dark pupils devouring what does reach his eyes. The wind ruffles his hair as he steps further from the shadows and into the light. A sigh of reproach escapes his lips as he comes to stand beside me, not quite willing to argue with my stubbornness.

“Have you ever had  _ carajillo  _ before?” I ask.

A pause. “I can’t say I have.”

“Well, I can’t blame you. I’m not much of a coffee drinker myself.” I place the nightbloom back to its original position, allowing the railing to hold up the vine once more. “It’s a drink that we usually have after meals, where I come from. A digestible. They say you can make it out of almost any liquor, really, but a lot of people I know say it’s best served with liqueur. The liquor is the heart of the drink.”

“I see.”

Barbatos stands a respectable distance away from me, given my rejection in regards to his attempts earlier. He stiffens slightly as I begin to near him, but he makes no move to increase the distance between us. I am before him in moments, mere inches away from one another, and I reach a cold hand to his face to tuck away the stray lock of hair. He makes no move to stop me, his expression set.

“They say  _ carajillo  _ is unforgettable. Deeper than the blackest night, warmer than a summer’s day, and sweeter than the parting kiss of a lover,” I say, reciting the words from memory. The woman who had sold me the liqueur had repeated the speech nearly every time I had come to inspect her wares, determined as I was to wait for the perfect bottle to arrive in her shop. “To take the first sip of carajillo is to subject oneself to a lifetime of yearning for its taste.”

Barbatos looks at me with his usual impassive expression. “Is there any specific reason why you are telling me this?”

“No, not really.” I smile. “I just wanted to thank you for everything.”

The kiss is brief. Fleeting. I draw my lips away from him almost immediately afterwards, refusing to let him react. Refusing to let him stop me. His eyes widen, his body completely frozen in the aftermath, and I take the opportunity to hurry to the door and fling myself through. The door locks softly behind me.

I run.

I fly past massive doors, brocade walls, and connections to other corridors as I make my way down the hall, my heart pounding in my ears. Thankfully, I have not strayed too far from the conference hall. I manage to gather my bearings in moments, rounding the corner of what I know to be the correct path. My weak heart threatens to collapse in the cavity of my chest, my frail body nearly collapsing beneath the strain of the exertion, but I know better than to stop.

The sound of footsteps behind me is nearly imperceptible.

I turn another corner. The massive corridor appears to be endless, the strange architecture of the castle playing tricks on my eyes -- but the door to the entrance hall is just within sight. Almost there. With the end of the interlude only a few minutes away, most of the representatives and Lord Diavolo should be in the process of returning to their places in the conference hall. If not already there, that is. I force my legs to move one after the other, each step taking nearly all of my willpower.

My body screams as a spear of light just barely misses my vitals, the edge tearing through both the flesh of my side and my blouse. Nearly forcing me to stop. The ruined fabric blooms with crimson. I hold an arm to my side and keep running, the entrance to the conference hall nearly before me.

My vision blurs. I almost collapse from the sudden blood loss, pained gasps leaving my lips. I don’t stop. The sound of footsteps has become much, much closer, and another spear of light nearly impales me once more. It shreds the flesh somewhere in one of my calves. Searing pain shoots up from the wound, my leg suddenly warm with the flow of blood, but I keep going forward. It becomes difficult to see through the haze of pain, blood loss, and fear -- and for a few moments I truly am running blindly through the corridor. For a few moments I see nothing but gray and black in my vision, spurred on only by determination.

The state is fleeting. I am a mere distance away from the door to the conference hall when my vision just barely manages to focus once more. I can hear the voices of the representatives inside. Lord Diavolo’s resonant laughter nearly shakes the wooden door, and Solomon answers back with a witty comment. One of them will open the door any moment now to allow any stragglers to rejoin the meeting. One of them will be able to save me before I can be killed, breaking the cycle, and Barbatos will have no need to turn back time. One of them will surely realize the danger that has come to threaten the peace of the three realms, and the treaty will be passed without opposing sentiment.

I am safe.

_ So there really was no need to lock him out, _ I chide myself, my heart fluttering with hope. I stumble towards the door, my hand both trailing the wall and using it to prop myself up.  _ All I had to do was run, and everything would have been fine. _

I catch something out of the corner of my eye, the flash of light drawing my attention. I turn instinctively towards it.

The angel before me is dressed in the brilliant whites and blues of the Celestial Realm, a golden chain securing his cloak together. There is that flash of light once more. The space between his palms begins to crackle with the formation of a spear, the weapon both beautiful and terrible. The angel’s countenance is relaxed, almost casual, as if the to-be murder were nothing more than an expected duty. As if this were nothing more than a necessity.

And then there is Barbatos, who appears just at the end of the corridor.

A strange, sudden moment of clarity hits me. Our gazes lock with one another across the distance. I smile regretfully at him.

The spear impales me through my throat, pinning me to the wall. Forcing my feet to dangle some distance from the ground. I choke around both the spear and the blood welling in my throat, my hands reaching to wrap around the shaft. Trying to pull it out, despite the futility of the effort. The skin of my palms burns against the spear of light. The blood drips freely down my form. The memory of dying does nothing to make the process easier, nor has it accustomed me to the experience. I scream and scream from the searing agony, my body overwhelmed with the excruciating intensity of the pain -- but only wheezing, pathetic gasps leave my lips.

* * *

I register the sound of a door opening through my waning consciousness. Blood that is not mine splatters against my skin. Warming me. And then there are the voices -- so, so many of them. A soothing clamor. My vision has long dissipated by the time my body is released from the spear, and then I am cradled against some strange form, the surface of the form cold to the touch. Unyielding and numbing.

But to me, it is the warmest sensation.


	9. BARBATOS: september 21st, 5:21 a.m.

It is a rather simple process. The coffee beans only take thirty-two seconds to grind, the water requires five to ten minutes to boil, and the coffee requires four minutes and eleven seconds to steep. It is seven seconds to fetch a glass, twelve seconds to place the cubes of ice from the ice box into the glass, and one minute to pour the liqueur into the glass. Once the coffee has finished steeping in the french press, it takes twenty-two seconds to finish the process of pouring the coffee into the glass.

I know this. I know each and every ingredient to make _carajillo_ , as she had called it. I have memorized every possible method of brewing and melding the properties of the cocktail together, and I have recorded every possible outcome from each process. I know the exact measurements of each ingredient, the most viable temperature for the cocktail, and the notes present in the drink.

I know these things, and yet I still manage to make too much each time.

It is a side effect of her death, I would imagine. Six hundred and sixteen days have passed since the time of her expiration. Fourteen thousand and seven hundred eighty-four hours. Eight hundred eighty-seven thousand forty minutes. It is also known as a total of fifty-three million, two hundred twenty-two thousand, and four hundred seconds -- most of which I have used to silently mourn. Half of which I have used to berate myself, the incessant questions plaguing me in all hours of the night.

 _How long had she known of her fate? How long had she suffered?_ I ask myself. _Had I tried one more time -- effectively placing us in the eighty-seventh cycle of the events -- would she have lived?_

Worse, I wonder if she detests me for committing such acts on her. With her.

The outcomes had carried the same characteristics throughout the course of the cycles, albeit with small variations. A strangling by the stairs, the marks around her neck black and blue from the force of the assault. A stabbing outside of her own room, her hands still pressed to the wound as she had tried to get help. A deadly fall from the top of the stairs, her body crumpled in a broken pile at the bottom. The forced ingestion of poison, the evidence of a struggle seen in the aftermath. Then I had found her body stuffed into a chest in a storage closet, a trail of blood leading to the gruesome scene.

Something inside me had snapped.

But there is no benefit to contemplating the consequences of my actions now. All the anguish and sorrow in the world would not bring her back. The regret would leave my heart heavy for the next millennia, and then I would have to forget. I would force myself to forget, regardless of circumstances. I had been lucky to avoid a revelation on Lord Diavolo’s part, to avoid the punishment that would surely come with using my abilities in such a manner. A millenia would be enough to mourn the loss.

I take the glass with me to a seating area by the window. While the diminutive nature of the kitchen forces a rather unconventional use of the space, I find the set up to be rather charming. Cozy, as one would call it. The seating area has been nearly built into the window, allowing its user to overlook a portion of the labyrinthine garden, and the table has been graciously donated to the space as an afterthought. I begin to raise the glass to my lips.

“Isn’t it a little early to be drinking something like that?” asks a voice.

Her voice.

 _But it can’t be her,_ I realize with a start. _She’s --_

Maria slips into the space across from me, playfully drumming her fingers against the table. “It’s a shame you didn’t wait for me,” she teases, a smile pulling at her lips. Her eyes flicker briefly to the cocktail in front of me. “I would have loved to have tried it together for the first time.”

 _What are you doing here?_ I want to ask, staring unabashedly at what must be a figment of my own imagination. _Why are you here? How did you get here? Is this some cruel part of my mind playing tricks on me?_

“You’re dead,” I manage.

“I am.”

I lower the glass back onto the table, not quite trusting myself not to drop it. “Are you --”

“Real?” she finishes for me. Maria reaches over and traces her small fingers against the back of my hands, pressing lightly, and the contact is as solid as it had been when she was alive. Albeit much colder. “Of course I am. Does that answer your question?”

“Not quite,” I respond, struggling to control the tone of my voice. “I would like -- no, I need more answers.”

Maria is quiet for a moment, regarding me -- and then she sighs, sinking into herself. “I was lost for a long time. A really, really long time. I don’t know if it was because I died down here or because I wasn’t allowed up there for -- for doing that, but I couldn’t remember who I was. I didn’t know where I was.” She presses a hand to her face, as if she were trying to subconsciously suppress a painful memory. “But then someone called me by my name, and I remembered. Ended up here. I think it was you, now that I think about it.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Well, time doesn’t really work that way when you’re dead,” she says, reading my meaning. Her finger idles with the edge of the glass. “It’s -- it’s harder to think when you’re dead. To keep time stick-straight and linear.”

Silence settles between us. The light of the false moon almost filters through her form, the composition shifting between that of a translucent nature and one that appears more solid. Dark, unruly curls frame the soft angles of her face, making her appear almost pitiful, and her frail shoulders are visible at times through the phantom blouse. Revealing the olive tone of her skin beneath. My eyes begin to trail her form, and I study the shape, looking for any indication that this apparition before me is not the human I had foolishly come to cherish. That this is only part of some horrible, conjured image. I find no such sign. Her dark gaze meets mine briefly, holding it for a moment -- but she looks away quickly, biting her lip.

Despite everything that I have seen of her, I feel inclined to be ashamed.

“Where will you go?” I say, attempting to distract both her and myself from the blunder. “It isn’t uncommon for spirits to wander to such a deep level of the Devildom, but you can’t stay here.”

She blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“They’ll eat you alive here. Devour you. Tear you apart. In limbo, where you were before, nothing lives or dies -- but such rules do not apply here.” I level my gaze with hers, trying to suppress the emotion in my voice. “If you perish a second time, there will be nothing of you left.”

“And if I don’t want to leave?” she ventures.

I pause, wordless. Unsure of how to answer. She should hate me. She should detest me with every fiber of her being, given the things that I have done to her. I had taken her innocence in every way possible. I had forced her through the ordeal again and again, unable to fathom the consequences such traumatic experiences could have on her psyche. I had used her for my own selfish means, simply believing that keeping her alive would make the both of us happy. I could not accept the reality of her death, rejecting the very idea -- and in turn I had brought unimaginable suffering onto one I had come to cherish. One I had truly, hopelessly come to love, twisting the concept just as a demon would.

“I’m sorry.” I cannot bring myself to look at her, the guilt swallowing my conscience. “I --”

“The Celestial Realm is on the brink of war,” she says, her voice suddenly on the other side of the room. I lift my head to see that she is making carajillo with the leftover coffee and the liqueur I have left on the counter. Her rough measurements are evident in the color and aroma of the cocktail. “While I may have avoided becoming a martyr, it appears that a coup d’etat has already been staged. If little action is taken, Lord Diavolo will have a much more significant disaster on his hands. That’s why I came here.”

 _To be corrupted,_ I realize, gazing upon her ethereal form. _She came to me to be corrupted into a demon._

Her eyes are sharp. Determined. “Will you?”

Even death has not changed her. She is still that bullheaded, stubborn mule of a human. Difficult, as always. Hopelessly infuriating. Willing to use the sheer force of her will to deny death its cold clutches. I find myself almost smiling at the fact, a mixture of both trapped grief and inexorable joy coming to the surface. The silent forgiveness is nothing short of jarring, the unspoken words speaking at a greater volume. Maria smiles back, lifting her glass in a strange sort of truce. I move to stand by her side, meeting the edge of her glass with mine, and take the first sip of the drink together with her.

It will take a millennium to truly beg for her forgiveness. A millennium to atone for the acts I had committed, the suffering I had inflicted upon her. And then it will take a millennium more to earn all that I had needlessly thrown to the fire. War or not, conflict or ceasefire, I find that I am completely willing to do so. I would prostrate myself before her for the end of time, if she so desired.

I find that the taste is truly all that she had said. Deeper than the blackest night. Warmer than a summer’s day. Sweeter than the parting kiss of a lover. Unforgettable in every manner possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please comment so I can experience social interaction during the quarantine!


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